


Netflix Presents: Trashmouth-Out, Loud and Proud

by trickztr



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Eddie Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Gay Richie Tozier, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Eddie Kaspbrak/Myra Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier's Stand Up Act, Self-Reflection, Slurs, Soft Richie Tozier, Stanley Uris is a Good Friend, alternative universe netflix special, eddie reflects back on their time together, eddie watches his husband in his natural habitat, older generation reflecting on their relationship with pride and sexuality, past myra/eddie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 01:16:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21227381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickztr/pseuds/trickztr
Summary: “@latimes This new version of Tozier is completely different than the one we've seen before. More approachable, with a backstory till now unknown and finally more human, owning his past mistakes and making amends. People have been saying Richie Tozier is reinventing himself in his 40s. I disagree. He is re-introducing himself, and this Tozier is much more interesting and worth knowing than the previous one. #TrashmouthOutLoudAndProud”Or Richie finally gets back on that comedy horse and he has a few things he'd like to get off his chest.





	Netflix Presents: Trashmouth-Out, Loud and Proud

**Author's Note:**

> Major thanks to [Joana](https://thranduil-aran-edhil.tumblr.com/), not only for all of her support (she wasn't the only one, btw. Our very own Losers' Club has been cheering over this for days now! I love you, guys), but also the revising, coming up with the title and the kickass LA Times review.

It’s a crisp New York night. Summer is fizzling out and Fall has begun spreading its roots all across the East Coast. It’s sweater weather, _ finally _, and the patrons take their seats, removing their coats and unwinding their scarves.

Eddie feels a little uncomfortable sitting by himself. The tables around him all have at least two people each and he feels like a fucking loser for being there alone. 

Well, truth be told, he feels like a pathetic fucking loser mostly because he figures _ other people _ will look at him sitting alone there and assume he’s on his own. And it’s stupid, because his date is literally the most notorious person in the house, so what the fuck?

The lights don’t favor him, he doesn’t think. The warm, pinkish ambiance lends him a sickly glow. The pictures will look _ amazing _, he thinks sarcastically.

He’s ordered his beer at least twenty minutes ago and so far, nothing. Which is beyond ridiculous! The house may be packing, but it’s not like anyone’s ordering anything yet and it’s infuriating, because if he had a beer in his hands right now at least it’d give him something to focus on instead of worrying--

He takes a deep breath. The waitress is doing her best. Eddie specifically ordered a brand that's not so easy to find and she said she'd check with the bartender. He needs to chill.

People showed up. A soothing voice (that sounds awfully like Beverly’s) nudges the back of his mind. It’s not a huge venue, but people are taking their seats not only in the mezzanine, but also the VIP tables around him. This is good. The turn up has already met the expectations.

Eddie feels part of the tension melting away. It’s good. It’s gonna be okay.

“There you go, Sir,” the young woman brings him a tray with his order and a frozen glass. She makes a show of pouring his beer in that artsy way most pubs do these days. It’s almost impressive. “Sorry it took so long.”

“Thank you. It’s fine.”

He takes a sip and tries to make himself more comfortable.

The lights dim down and a velvety female voice welcomes them, thanks them all for the preference of their particular establishment and quite ostensibly sucks up to their sponsors. The usual warnings to not film, photograph or generally be a dick during the act. Reminds them that the show is being recorded live for a Netflix Special Presentation and ends on a polite, “enjoy your show and have a pleasant evening!” 

A single beam of blue light shoots on the stage, illuminating a stool and a microphone stand. 

“And now, please welcome Richie "Trashmouth" Tozier!” A male voice booms from every direction, as a mashup of [ _ Seven Nation Army _ and _ Sexyback _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yAPfxafS5tk) floods the stage. Richie walks to the stage, dancing every other step.

Eddie groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “I told him not to do that,” he mumbles.

He has to admit, though, that as cringy as it is, it doesn’t feel out of place. Even if Richie does look like the world’s clumsiest gas station blow up doll, it’s almost endearing.

“Heyia, New York!” He pipes up, plucking the mic from its stand. “Wow, a lot of you showed up! I gotta be honest, I kind of assumed this would flop? I went M.I.A. for a while, then came back super gay and married. Let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised if a large portion of my demographic had moved on.”

The audience cheers and booms again. Richie waves them down. “Thank you, thank you.” He adjusts his glasses, bouncing slightly from side to side. 

“But you know, technically I _ did _ lose a huge chunk of my fan base at the time. Yeah, my agent came up to me the week I dropped that bomb and he was like, ‘I fucking hate you, you’ve ruined us both!’. Lovely man, one of my best friends. Anyway, so he’s pissed, right? And he’s yelling at me and for a second I totally forget I’m his boss and not the other way around - it happens a lot when you have no self-esteem, don’t worry, it’s totally normal, so--”

Eddie remembers this. Richie was incredibly nervous about mentioning it on his act because there were many legal aspects that were..._ sensitive _ about his “renegotiation” between his agent and his sponsors. It wasn't pretty.

There was a strong push to not only keep his sexuality under wraps - in theory, they’d claimed, because he’d already been so successful in doing it all these years, so he owed it to the brands he represented to keep up appearances -, but also to pay a fee for the dates he’d missed while in Derry.

Eddie never intruded in any of that. At least not in the legal aspects, even though he was sure Richie's agent was being an incompetent fuck. 

But Eddie and Richie were all so new to what they were starting at the time. Their relationship still in its infancy, and boundaries were a big deal for them. 

Richie gave him room to heal from his physical _ and _ emotional wounds - the divorce had been its own beast and something Eddie hates to even remember -, and kept his own problems as quietly as possible. And to his part, Eddie was afraid he’d step into things he didn’t really understand about the Showbiz(™) or the pressures of keeping sponsors. Coming out was hard enough; coming out when other people’s money was on the line was a nightmare he couldn’t even begin to imagine, so he kept his mouth shut. If Richie wanted his opinion, he’d ask.

Looking back, he figures, they were both morons. Richie was never good at articulating what he needs, and Eddie should’ve trusted his instincts when they told him to jump in.

It’d all worked out in the end, of course. Richie is smart, and a real charmer when he wants to be. Besides, his incredibly expensive team of lawyers were quite the match to his sponsors’.

He’d lost some, of course. About an hour after Richie’s - now infamous - tweet (‘tried to kill a spider in the bathroom this morning and failed like the bitch i am. Ran off, because ofc i did. I bet it’s still there, plotting my demise. Fuck spiders, man. Anyway, i’m gay.’) _ Coors _ sent a really indelicate email terminating their contract. And he lost a shit ton of followers.

"--and the internet likes gay people now? That is some brand new information for me, I'll tell you that! Back in my day, if someone called you some fucked up slur it was on you to convince everyone around the accuser was wrong." The audience responds accordingly. Richie grins. Some guy keeps waving, and Richie waves back, throwing a wink in for good measure.

"Even if they were right." He goes on. "Even if you were that slur, you'd still have to find a way to prove you weren't. Like, I have this friend, right? The only black kid in our hometown. Can you imagine what life was like for him?_ Imagine trying to prove you weren't. _ He didn't, of course, and his childhood was fun." 

The audience does the expected "awwwww", and Eddie takes a swig of his beer to calm himself. There were probably 'Mikes' in a lot of those people's towns. What did they do help them?

"Nowadays, though, some asshole will call you a 'fucking queer' online and a people jump to defend you. That is so wild to me! I mean, being called a slur still stings as fuck. Takes me right back to 9th grade. But at least people care now. Oh, and if you reply, it'd better be something like, "thanks, I am", or you're dubbed unwoke. But that's cool! That's cool." Richie toys with the mic wire, looking down. "Liberating, actually. I've started incorporating that in my everyday life. I've really gotten into the vibe, you know? I'm a middle-aged queer and that has its perks. Like the other day, when I cut in a guy and he yelled 'cocksucker!' from his rolled down window, and I shouted back: 'damn right I am!'. It's very empowering!" 

The audience laughs and Eddie feels the tension leave his body. This new stage persona was a dice-y bet and everyone involved in Richie Tozier's image had been up in colics after his follower count dropped down and he'd became several talk shows go-to laugh.

Richie bounced back, eventually. As it turns out, Millennials had some incredibly nice things to say about him online and the hype got him the momentum he needed to be seen as bankable again.

"The power of wokeness," he continues now, twirling the mic wire. "We didn't have that when I was growing up. If you were gay, your beatings were programmed thoughout the day to fit every bully's schedule. You'd have one of their goons come up to you and say, 'Beavers has a calculus exam in third period, so he'll have to push back the beating to 5th period.' And you'd have to reply with, 'shit, yeah, no, that's not gonna work out. Jameson already booked that time slot. But there's a window between 3:45 and 5pm, because Sanders isn't sure he'll have to go the dentist today.' It was a whole thing. But you were never, under any circumstance, Out, Loud and Proud, like you're expected to be today." He takes a sip of his water.

"There's so much pressure on us, queers, to be thriving today, isn't there? We _ have _ to be proud! And I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be proud of. Sure, I have no gag reflex, so I guess there's _ something _ I can do and take pride in, but other than that I can't say my contribution to my people has been pride-worthy."

A little help from their friends hadn’t hurt, of course. With Beverly now dressing him and Bill name-dropping him on Twitter so often, the internet took to him like bees to honey for a while. It was the confidence boost he needed to start writing his own material.

“Wouldn’t it be ironic,” he’d mentioned casually one night, a hesitant smile on his lips. “If I were actually funny enough to write my own material? I mean, how crazy would that be.”

Eddie had put down his book and brushed a stray curl away from Richie’s eye. “You’re fishing too early for compliments, dude. Write something first, then maybe I’ll stroke your ego.”

Richie had barked out a laugh and turned on his side. “Well, there’s always something else you could be stroking.”

“Don’t put that joke in your thing,” had been Eddie’s note as he turned off the lights. 

On stage, present-time Richie is warming up to what he referred to as the ‘awwwwwnn’ moment. In his own words, the bit in the act when he humanizes himself to the audience and from then on it’s easier to build rapport and get them to connect emotionally to him. It’ll only work this one time, so they’d have to really nail it the first time.

Eddie takes a deep breathe. Watches Richie mouth out the words, rather them hears them and counts down in his own head. ‘One...two...three--’

“--and he’s here tonight, my husband. Can we get the, uh--” a yellow beam of light shines down on Eddie and just as rehearsed, he waves shyly, a clipped smile on his lips. “There he is! Round of applause, guys. No, come on, louder! Let’s really embarrass him, he’s super shy. Yeah! Love of my life, one and all! Most boring person I ever met, could _ not _live without him.” Richie allows the applause to get really loud, soaks in it for a moment and then makes a cutting gesture with his hands. “Alright, that was fun. Enough of that. It’ll go to his head, let’s just move on.”

He watches the crowd intently, holds that tension and then grabs the mic from its stand and starts walking on stage. “I’m lucky, you know? _ I _ know. He supports me in ways I don’t think anyone else in the world could understand. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t roast my ass from time to time. You see, Eddie has a thing which I never had in my life. Not even once! A real job. The kind where you put on a serious suit, get in your expensive car, go to your office, have serious meeting with serious people. You know, a serious job. I have never experienced that. Even my meetings are chill. I skype most of them. So needless to say, we don’t get each other’s jobs _ at all _.”

The audience laughs uproariously and oh, ok, so Eddie gladly stands corrected. When Richie had shown him that bit in the script it’d seemed out of touch and unrelatable, but apparently a lot of couples don’t get their significant other’s job.

“Last year, when I finally decided to put an end to my two-year long sabbatical and started writing this show, I briefly name-dropped John Mulaney,” the crowd cheers and booms. Richie acts surprised and outraged, as if that line hadn’t been added specifically to get that reaction. “What the fuck, no! Don’t you dare revere someone else who isn’t me, to my face! Go watch his stupid, Emmy-award-winning shows if you like him so much! Anyway, so I was casually name-dropping this famous person I happen to be friends with - _ as you do _ \- and he. Freaked. Out.” 

Eddie didn’t quite freak out. Not exactly. But it was a form of wake-up call for him, in regards to how big Richie was in his field. Sure, he knew some of it _ subjectively _. He’d been casually following Richie Tozier’s work throughout the years and he had a vague idea this person was somehow famous. But the sort of fame that exists in a vacuum, in that way that it’s not connected to anything, it goes nowhere and serves no purpose. It was just there, like a social media celebrity or whatever.

But Richie had worked directly with John Mulaney for years. They’d collabed and had several projects credited to them. Richie even produced a thing or two. What shook Eddie wasn’t the fact that Richie knew this one random famous comedian, but the fact that his work had, at one point, had such depth that it was linked with actual household names. People that mattered. To the world, and to Richie himself. 

e wasn’t just a solo recognisable face in a sea of shallow, crass humor; he’d been part of something bigger, something more creative and, in its own way, with the limitations that comedy brings with itself, even meaningful.

Eddie had been shocked by that realization - and he gets it; it was stupid, selfish and just a little bit insulting. But it had kind of stung to come to the realization that Richie had had a life during those three decades when they were apart, and special people had filled the empty space Eddie had left. 

He takes a sip of his beer and smiles politely at the people who keep stealing glances at him, grinning in that conspiratorial way guests usually reserve for birthdays and weddings toasts (“we’re including you in this! We acknowledge your presence and the comfortable awkwardness of being put on the spotlight by someone you love!”). 

Richie goes on with the bit. Sprinkles a throwaway joke about their dogs taking sides in an argument that never happened about Richie keeping famous friends a secret. He changes the subject, the script flowing as seamlessly as Eddie knew it would. Talking about their dogs led to a rant about people who treat pets as babies and the absurdity that is the pressure to procreate.

“I mean, I get that corporations need as many slaves to pod and harvest as possible, but come on! There are not enough resources on the planet for this many people. That’s just simple math, you know? Capitalism is destroying itself by reinforcing the myth that family units are the glue that holds America together.” He scoffs. “Family units aren’t even the glue that holds family units together!" His audience laughs and claps as if on cue. 

"That’s the thing, you know? Heteronormativity is designed kind of like iPhones, in that way that in less than a couple of years it’s obsolete, frustrating. You wanna add new stuff to it but the operating system won’t let you, and you wanna toss it in the nearest garbage bin, but at that point you’ve already invested so much in it you’re just gonna ride that until it falls apart in your hands. And then you get another one and it’s the same cycle, over and over. Meanwhile, despite all the shit you’ve talked about Android, and I'm not saying it doesn't have its problems, it definitely works better, costs way less and its users are just thriving and happy to tell you as much.” 

At this point, Richie pauses, allowing the audience time to laugh at that punchline. He winks at Eddie’s general direction and before the laughter dies down, he concludes. “Look. I’m not saying everyone should be gay, alright? That’s not what the gay agenda is - that one is ‘stop killing us’. What I’m saying is we need to admit that the heteronormative model that was force-fed down our throats all our lives is fucked up and serves no real purpose. You’re not supposed to resent your partner, man. It’s so weird that it’s just… you know, widely accepted as The Norm. ‘My significant other makes me miserable, mwah mwah’, okay, dude. Maybe get a divorce? But don’t hold grudges against who you're supposedly love, because I guarantee you, not doing that feels way better. For example, when we have an argument and my husband says John Mulaney is funnier than me, I don’t resent him! I simply remind him that he’s 43 and had to settle for me, so who’s laughing now, right?” 

Richie paces the stage. He gestures at someone in the backstage and a water bottle is tossed at him. “Gotta stay hydrated,” Richie sing-songs. “Anyway,” he says after taking a long gulp of his water. “I know I’ve talked a lot about my husband and my married life, but that’s just because… I’m happy. And also on the stage. For the next hour your ears are mine and you’ll just have to listen, so suck on that. Speaking of ‘suck on that’, I had a friend almost die because she has no gag reflex. Yeah, that’s a real thing! Can you believe?”

Eddie rubs a hand over his face and unconsciously crosses his legs to get some friction _ and _ contain a possible erection. He remembers the inspiration for the upcoming joke and should’ve prepared better for it.

On stage, Richie goes on.

“There's plenty of shit out there that are total myths but we believe them to be true. Like, for example, Vitamin C. That was some bullshit spewed by a celebrity chemist to get everyone to buy as much of the thing as possible. It's insane! It’s already been disputed and we still believe, to this fucking day, that we should take Vitamin C to prevent, I don’t know, the common cold or whatever.” He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Other things, however,” he goes on, raising his voice a few notes. “Sound a lot like myths, but are, in fact, very much true. Like the gag reflex thing, right? And how some people don't have it. This sounds like such fucking horse shit made up by the porn industry and reinforced by Hollywood as a shortcut to, I dont know, something funny or sexy. It's ludicrous! A gag reflex is a defense mechanism evolution came up with so you don’t asphyxiate to death. Literally a feature that should come with every human body, right? Wrong. Not having a gag reflex is totally a thing, and I know that because I don't have one. Obviously this means that I was always meant to be gay, and die young. But hey! At least I'm gay! I love cock and god knows I'd much rather be home blowing my husband than here telling stupid jokes. Sadly, my Tesla isn’t gonna pay for itself, so.” He gestures at himself and then the room at large. 

“No having a gag reflex will eventually kill me, but at least it's useful. Now imagine being a lesbian and suffocating because your throat failed to keep large things away from your esophagus? Which is what happened to my friend, the poor loser. Lucky for her, the wife was at home and rescued her. It has a happy ending, relax.”

That actually never happened. They don’t know anyone who nearly choked to death or if not having a gag reflex could cause lethal accidents. Most likely, it isn’t even a thing. Richie had promised his agent he’d keep his brand trashy, though. Pepper in a dirty joke here and there, from time to time. 

A jab at his taste for sucking cock it was, then.

And Richie really did love it, by the way. For someone who’d had so little previous experience, Richie Tozier sure knew his way around a blowjob.

That was a whole conversation between them when they first got together. It took them a while to get physical because Richie was so afraid Eddie would break like a KitKat bar in his arms.

“You _ just _ got out of the hospital,” he’d argued. “Maybe we should take things slow for now.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Eddie had snapped, pressing up against him. “The doctors cleared me, I’m good.”

Which wasn’t completely true. A very loud part of of his brain kept banging on imaginary doors and shouting things like, ‘ruptured stitches!’, ‘internal bleeding’, ‘std’s,’ and ‘generalized infection from this disgusting fucking mattress, jesus fucking christ, when did Richie get his bed, college?’

It had been a hot fucking minute since Eddie been with another man. His college years had seen a revolving door of men and women in his dorm. Aidan, his roommate, used to say it was the tragic line of his eyebrows that made him such a hit. Maybe it was just that, or maybe it was Aidan’s endless supply of Adderall and weed that got so many people through the door, but the important thing was that they _ did _ get through that door.

Then he met Myra, and everything he’d been up until that point was put on hold. In their own way, they’d really loved each other.

Richie was a different beast altogether. So eager to please, so worried he’d do the wrong thing. It was more than understandable, though. This thing between them was a long time coming, and it was impossible to keep the expectations low.

“You could’ve been my first kiss,” Richie had murmured as he trailed kisses down Eddie’s neck. “Vanessa Boars made a great effort, but--”

“I prefer the grown up version.”

Richie then got up on his elbows and smirked at him like the cat who ate the cream. “You should! The grown up version knows how to make the most of his lack of a gag reflex.”

Richie’s energy on stage is fascinating, Eddie thinks. Not a manic bunny hopping from side to side like Mulaney or Minhaj, or limbs moving jello as visual comedy for how tall and lanky he is, like Burnham seems to favor so much. His old style, the _ aggressively straight persona _ , was stoic and barely moved. No matter what reaction he got from the audience, that Tozier was unfazed. External approval meant nothing to that character. He was doing the audience a _ favor _ by sharing his amazing stories. His current stage persona is way more dynamic.

Since the stage isn’t particularly large, Richie seems to have given himself approximately two paces in each direction, and in that square block he moves as someone holding a very casual conversation. 

“Funny thing, comedy,” few laughs. “Oh, come on, I hand it to you in a silver platter! ‘Comedy is funny’, you think you’ll be getting particular brand of lazy joke from John Mulaney? I don’t think so!” He huffs. “Anyway, so the thing about comedy is that you’re willingly putting yourself on the spot and going out of your way to get them to laugh at you. If you were bullied growing up, this was your definition of hell, but here I’m being paid to do just that. Isn’t that great? You’re all paying for my exposure therapy, and I really appreciate it.”

Richie allows the audience time to laugh their discomfort away and paces his limited radius, looking down. When the silence stretches on into _ downright awkward _, he goes on.

“I grew up in a small town called Derry, in Maine. Anyone from Maine here?” A few people cheer and raise their hand. “My condolences. So, Derry, right? In my humble opinion, Derry is hell’s waiting room. It’s a fucked up, backward little rural stretch of earth swarming with terrible people. Nice scenery, though. _ Doesn’t make up for all the racism and homophobia _, but Summers are beautiful there.” 

Richie really leans into the mic, in a way, getting closer to the edge of the stage and thus, the audience. There’s his trademark self-deprecating smile and a kind of intensity behind his glasses that makes for great entertainment, but Eddie knows what Richie is talking about. 

Being able to finally remember all of Derry, their childhood, the people who are still living there, why they repeated their cycles of abuse, and worse (or better), reliving all of that as an adult gave a whole new context to their emotional injuries. It all made sense, suddenly. It finally dawned on Eddie why he craved anxiety-inducing situations, why he allowed - even took comfort in - being put under a microscope and sheltered from everything.

It was freeing to revisit those traumatic events, even if it almost cost his life. This was something that bonded all seven of them together again. _ They knew _. They all knew what it felt like. 

Yes, Derry summers were beautiful in a way not many places are anymore. It's all the more cruel, hell, more ironic even, that at its core, the town was as ugly and horrific as they come.

Richie went there together again, about eight months ago. He wanted to soak in the horribleness of their childhood hometown to _ really _ hammer it in on his new material, and Eddie wasn't gonna let him to alone.

It felt strange, wrong, maybe.

Richie didn’t admit it for at least a week after they were back in New York, but he’d expected something to have changed in Derry. 

“You know, like… We killed that fucking clown. We saw It fade away and its gross home crumble down. It’s _ gone _. Shouldn’t his magic, or whatever, have gone too? Like, I kept expecting the air to be different.”

Eddie had frowned, and after a long time thinking about it, he’d just said. “Fuck them.”

Richie had smiled sadly and squeezed his hand. “Awww, that’s deep, man.”

  
On stage, Richie goes on with his bit. “I went back there a few years ago for the first time in, like, thirty years. It doesn’t matter why. I had this reunion with my middle school best friends and it was… a real fucking bummer. Not only are they _ way _ hotter than me now,” he throws fingers guns in Eddie’s direction. “They made something out of their lives. Like, what the fuck? You actually used those three decades to do something meaningful? Fuck off!”

Richie starts counting off his fingers. “A risk analyst, a fashion designer, an architect, a writer, a librarian and an accountant. _ All of those _ are actual professions. Jobs that contribute to society! They’re all. Fucking. Productive. Fully functioning cogs in the capitalist machine. And then there’s me! Someone paid to go up on a stage and lie through his teeth to get a few laughs.”

No one laughs.

“Tough crowd.” He sits down, crossing his legs as he used to do when they were kids. “Terrible trip, wouldn’t recommend it, but that’s when I re-met my husband. I hadn’t showered in two days and looked like something you’d find in a dumpster. And you know what? It fucking worked, bitches. Fussiest guy I know! Total germaphobe. Will not shake your hands without slapping on some hand sanitizer, but he took a look at this alley goblin,” he points at himself, making sure to flash a lewd smirk. “And was, like, ‘yes, i would like to climb that like a tree’.” He shrugs. “I got mine. I should write a thank you note to the people of Derry. 'Dear Assholes, thanks for the several years of trauma. Paid for my beach house and landed me a husband."

Eddie rolls his eyes. Obviously they remember that weekend differently. Richie had looked rugged, yes. Could’ve definitely used a few more hours of sleep? Indubitably. But he’d looked _ so good _. As Eddie’s childhood memories settled in, the affection he remembered harbouring for Richie as a pre-teen connected with the lust he felt as an adult.

Richie still needed to be largest, loudest thing in the room. His voice was deeper than Eddie remembered, _ obviously _, and yet still too shrill for a grown man. Somehow that only made him more… endearing, maybe. The thick glasses, the shaggy hair, the day-old stubble and long limbs. Tall as every bit of his lanky teen body had promised he’d be. And that trashy mouth--

Eddie doesn’t like to assume. Not ever. As someone who grew up with a number of issues, especially those regarding his sexuality, he tries to approach situations with caution. He knows what he looks like, that’s never been the problem. The thing is, though, that not every flirting situation means what he hopes it will, so he’s learned to ignore certain things. 

But when Richie started taking shots without his hands, well. Clearly he was trying to get _ someone’s _ attention.

Things happened too fast at the time. One second he’s arm wrestling Richie, amping up to ask him to stretch the night out at some bar on their way to the hotel. The next, and isn’t that a weird thing to remember, fortune cookies are telling them their childhood best friend was probably tragically dead.

Eddie doesn’t hold a grudge against Stan for lying. Especially when _ that _ almost didn’t qualify for a lie. The cut was real. The scar on Stan's left wrist, _ very _ real. As was his time in the hospital and then the institution he was transferred to for so many months. A version of Stan had truly died that night, and well, wasn’t that true for all of them?

They’re still not quite sure how Pennywise’s “magic” worked. Not even Mike, even with all of his research. All they know is that by leaving their hometown at various ages they left behind a huge chunk of their lives. Getting them back, weirdly, felt like the missing piece of a puzzle that no longer fit the image.

As soon as he saw them again he knew the spots they’d once fit in. His friends, partners in crime and adventure. The _ adventures _, per se, were still hazy. He recognized the sense of wonder when looking at Beverly, but couldn’t remember why. Bill and Mike, the boyish admiration that their faces sparked in him. But Richie? Looking at Richie had felt like coming home and realizing the locks were changed.

“So much has changed since the last time I was more obviously gay. You know, back in the late eighties. It’s so impressive that kids these days can take words that were once horrific slurs and reclaim them. I remember when being called a ‘homo’ was worse than being punched in the teeth. I mean, obviously, if it got to the point where someone was calling you that they’d be punching you too, but now? Gays are joking around with that word too. Fucking impressive. Same goes for dyke, queer, fairy and even fruit.” He applauds in fake-slow motion. “You go, kids! Way stronger than I could ever be. But there’s this one slur that’s never been reclaimed, and I don’t think it ever can be.” 

Richie sighs, holding the tension in the room for as long as he can. He licks his lips and goes. “Fag.” Someone boos. “Yes, thank you. Gross as fuck. Heard it a lot in my formative years, though. And listen, this isn’t the portion of the show designated to make you cry. We’re just talking. You’ve paid to hear me talk.” He adjusts his glasses. “‘Fag’ was a fan-favorite in Derry. Heard it a lot growing up. Long before I knew what it meant. Then I _ did _ find out what it means. It was about two or three years before it dawned on me that, hey, maybe I _ am _ that word after all. Isn’t that fucked up?” Richie laughs loudly, but the room is so silent, Eddie swears they could probably hear a pin dropping. 

“I knew to hate Me, be disgusted by Me, even to fear Me, a long time before I really knew _ me _. Because you see, that word has a way of getting under your skin. And once it’s in your system? Oof. It stays there. Congrats, you’ve been infected by Homophobia. Runs through your bloodstream, bringing with it all of that fear, loathing and hatred you used to see in the faces of your bullies. And you carry that virus with you for the rest of your life.”

No laughs. No applause. Not even some heckling. Just a very tense audience, and some murmuring here and there.

Richie clicks his tongue. “I love this. You’re all so uncomfortable right now. Listen, all you straights out there: it’s fine. I mean, it’s terrible and left scars I guess will never really heal, but _ it’s fine _. You feeling like crap over it changes nothing. And the people who actually do this shit to cause damage couldn’t care less, so… You know. Relax. Your allyship is cute, but it’s not like we, you know, the older gays, need symbols or woke allies.”

He groans, making a face.

“And that’s another thing, you know? Allyship and symbols. Ugh. Ever since I came out I get one of these two reactions: a) 'i hope you die, you fucking faggot', or, sometimes, its more region specific variation, 'you'll burn in hell, you fucking faggot'. Which is great, because it's always good to have options. I guess.”

People laugh. A couple in the table next to Eddie’s is so far gone, the guy is punching the table, the glasses shaking precariously. Eddie frowns.

Comedy really is a beast he can't comprehend.

He’d seen Richie have a panic attack before, that wasn’t new. Richie tended to deflect his worries and anxieties, which wasn’t unusual. With time, however, they’d started to scratch off the painting and check what was beneath the surface when Eddie started spending the night at Richie’s place. 

It wasn’t pretty, but their source was recognisable. A crumbling house, yellow eyes, anguished cries, cold water and foul smell. They’d lived it together and Richie would willingly seek comfort in Eddie’s embrace after bad attacks.

His first death threat, though, was also the first real wall between them.

“Or I'll get the extreme opposite of that,” Richie goes on, gesticulating with his hands to show the audience two figures in an imaginary scale. “Option b), where people come to me and go, 'you're an inspiration to me! Thank you for representing all gays out there, you’re the voice of a generation!' ” A hush falls in the room. “_ I know, right? _ Really Intense Shit. Either I'm the worst human being out there - which, by the way, so unfair to much worse people. Mohamm Bin Salman didn't do everything he did to get to this point in his life and be dethroned by a middle-aged loser, okay? Credit where is due, folks -, or I'm the voice of all gays out there. Me. I mean... I know the state of affairs is bad, but seriously?" He rubs a hand over his face.

"Three years ago I was tweeting about wanting to thrash Emma Stone’s pussy! And by the way, I remember being shitless scared when I tweeted that, thinking people would catch up to me. Like, ‘what, she’s old enough to be your daughter, man! Obviously you’re gay and have no concept of what would be attractive to straight white men!’. But, you know. Anyway.” He makes a face, opening his eyes as wide as they go, and the audience takes the cue. “I shouldn't be the voice of anything, I'll tell you that.”

Richie makes a show of getting up with some difficulty, making sure the mic gets some mild feedback on his way up. 

“Also, the responsibility. Ugh. I chose to be a comedian precisely because of the zero responsibility aspect of that career. If I wanted crushing pressure I would've become a flight controller." He puts the mic back in its stand and supports his full weight on it. “It’s all about that wokeness these days. The cool new trend. ‘Oooh, I’m woke! I get political correctness!’. Fuck that, man. I’m not ‘woke’. I honestly wouldn’t know how to go around being that. How does one just shed a lifetime of bigotry like it’s an outdated coat, huh? No, I wanna know! Seems like I should’ve figured that out by now, but...” 

Eddie scoffs. “Boy, I’ll say…” He mumbles.

Their first year together was _ complicated _, to put it mildly. 

In Richie’s apartment, it was as if they lived in a world of their own. The two of them had so much lost time to make up for, and every touch, every kiss, every tiny detail of domestic bliss had felt like a tribute to three decades long wasted. It would’ve been the stuff of sappy Hollywood crap if it weren’t for the outside world.

Richie had a way of introducing Eddie to the people in his life that was only ever _ almost _ insulting. 

“And this is Eddie,” he’d say, with a smile so big it could probably split his face in half. “We go way back.”

Conveniently vague. 

“Like, we can’t pretend I’m not part of the problem here.” Richie tells the audience. 

“What do you want me to say, dude?” Richie had snapped one day. “What the fuck does it matter to those people what I do in my own home?”

“Oh, my God, you asshole! Why do you always do that?! I don’t want you to livestream us fucking, but could you maybe spare me the small fucking dignity of being addressed as your boyfriend?”

“What’s the fucking difference? Do you think they don’t know?”

“Everyone at the office knows I divorced Myra for you.”

“That was _ your _ choice.”

“Yeah. It was.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. They were so dramatic. And it’s not like he was blameless, he concedes. Holding hands at the Farmer’s Market was a huge challenge for him.

  
“Most of my career was built on reinforcing the same structures that made me hate myself for so long. I didn’t just magically erase this shame, disgust and resentment against myself and others like me. This is something I’ve spent a lifetime building, and just because three years ago I saw a guy and remembered I’d been in love with him my whole life it doesn’t mean I forgot all of the rest. These things take time and effort.” 

Richie buries one of his hands inside his pocket and takes an envelope. He lifts it high enough that the whole audience can see.

“I’ve got a great story about ownership of responsibility. A few years ago a friend sent a letter to each of us in our little clique, _ because a bitch needs to be dramatic _ . Could’ve texted. Could’ve sent an email. But no, he _ sent a letter _. To each of us! Individually. While he was in a psychiatric institution. Because, you know, he really wanted to hammer in that guilt. Makes us feel it in the bones. You know, true friendship.” He throws finger guns at the audience.

Richie looks at the envelope and grimaces. “It was a long ass letter. Stupidly condescending, too. I read it in one of the scariest days of my life. Wasn’t even that great, to be honest. Generic crap about ‘be your best self, bla bla bla’, but it pulled me from the depths of despair and helped me get the nerve to, well. Do just that: be my best self and go after what I wanted.” He flips the envelope in his hand, frowns at it and then puts it back in his pocket. 

“I guess what that means is that Stan should be writing for Shawn Mendes, Katy Perry or whoever makes money off giving generic advice.” Uproarious laughter and clapping. “No, seriously, though. The thing about ownership and responsibility is that it needs to come from within. I don’t give two shits what Chris Evans thinks about gay marriage! I care what _ I _ think about that. I just needed someone to take advantage of my two rare seconds of emotional vulnerability and shake me until my brain finally kickstarted.” 

Eddie feels an uncomfortable knot in the pit of his stomach. 

It _ did _ take Richie some time to fight for him, but fight for him he did. Among others, that’s a memory he’d like to either get in full, perfect HD and from different angles, or delete it completely.

Everything after passing out from blood loss in that disgusting cave and up to his post-surgery recovery is a blur. He remembers his friends shouting abuse at someone (their monster). Black out. Seething pain, blinding light and Richie sobbing and yelling at their friends over his body. Black out. An ambulance. Black out. Anesthesia spreading through his body like a blessing. Black out.

Voices. Mouth dry and nausea. Someone holding his hand. Black out. Different voices, more medication, an itch in his chest that no one would let him scratch. Thirst. Hunger. Nausea. Exhaustion.

Someone brushing a hand over his hair and babbling stuff he can’t, for the life of him, remember. Maybe his brain just didn’t register the words at the time.

“--that he stay in observation for--”

“The doctors said it was safe for him to go home.” Myra had sounded so sure. “I don’t doubt that your heart is in the right place, but--”

“No, listen, I _ just _ spoke to Dr. Samwell. She said he could definitely use a few more days here.”

Her raspy laugh. “We do have hospitals in Manhattan, Mr. Tozier. And between you and me, _ better ones _.”

“I just think he’s not exactly ready to hop on an airplane right now, you know? Eddie’s getting amazing care here, what’s the rush?”

“I need my husband at home, where I can take care of him. And while I _ deeply _ appreciate your concern, trust me, I know what’s best for him.”

“No, I get it, but they just sowed up a hole in his chest! He needs time to rec--”

“And I’m sure that you’re eager to go back to own life, as your friends have also done.”

Eddie remembers wanting to speak up, but he was just so tired. Every part of his body begged him to go back to sleep, so he did.

The journey back to New York was something close to torture. Myra got them economy class tickets, even though he had enough miles to bump them both to business class without paying an extra cent. He was in pain constantly, except for when he wasn’t--Myra would all but shove pills down his throat if he so much as winced. 

At home, even though she’d been quick to put him in bed rest, Myra would be constantly reminding him of work.

“You’ve missed so many days already!” She’d cry as she cleaned his stitches and applied the ointment. “And the firm is so good to you, never forget that. They’re willing to keep you on payroll, even though you just ran off one day without so much as a notice! But I told Robert, ‘he’s too fragile to go back to the office right now,’” and maybe that’s not exactly how it happened, but this is how he remembers it: his wife applying more pressure on his wound as she said that, than was necessary. “And I just think that’s an opportunity for you to reconsider working from home.”

“Myra--” He’d tried, but she’d just pushed him down into the pillows.

“Shhh, you need to rest now.”

Days had passed by. Weeks, even, and not a pip from any of his friends. A part of his brain was convinced it meant the fucking clown was still alive and maybe the others had started losing their memories again. But it just didn’t add up, because he remembered them. All too vividly.

One day, when he can finally walk around his own apartment without barfing every two steps, someone bangs on their door. Myra had obviously beat him to the door and blessedly, for once in their shared life she hadn’t checked the magic eye before unbolting the locks.

He does not consider himself romantic. That’s all Richie. The romanticizing of their relationship and their personalities, the grand gestures and hopes for the future. No, Eddie is more practical than that, and a huge chunk of loving Richie is reconciling those two parts of his heart: the one that assesses they’re statistically bound to fail, and the one that would fight the Devil himself for Richie. 

It’s a rollercoaster, but at least he’s enjoying the ride.

Seeing Richie at his threshold, all 6’2 of him, dishevelled and seething with righteous anger as he and Myra argued, made him feel more loved and protected than he had ever felt up until that moment.

“--I’m not asking for permission!” Richie hadn’t yelled per se, but his shrill voice had carried firmly throughout the entire apartment. “I’m sick of your bullshit, lady! I’m seeing him and if you wanna stop me, you better call the cops because that’s the only way I’m walking out!”

“Oh, you better believe I’m calling the cops!” She’d yelled, punching in the numbers on her phone. “He’s sick, why can’t you understand that?”

“For two months?! Two months and he’s still unconscious? Why isn’t he in a hos--Eddie!” A smile had broken in his face and it was so beautiful. “Fuck, man, it’s soo good to see you!” He’d pushed passed Myra and wrapped his arms around Eddie.

“You’re hurting him!” 

“Oh, my God, he’s not made of glass!” Richie had replied, impatient. He’d brushed a hand over the scar on Eddie’s cheek. “Wow, will you look at that? Now you got a sexy scar.”

The first time he’d really felt alive since Neibolt. 

“Ah, that smile,” Richie had murmured. “I missed your stupid face.”

“Yeah, I missed your ugly mug too.”

“Eddie, babe, you need to go back to bed, you’ll exhaust yourself!”

“I’m fine.” He’d replied, to his great shame, in a small voice.

“You’re too pale, you need to take your vitamins and lie down. Mr. Tozier, don’t make me call the cops for real. Please leave.”

“You know what, Mrs. Kaspbrak? I won’t. I mean it, call the cops, I don’t care.” He’d turned back to Eddie. “There’s something I need to tell you and if I walk out, fuck.” Richie had bitten his lip, and Eddie couldn’t help but track the movement. “If I walk I’ll lose my nerve. Can we talk in private?”

“Anything you have to tell him, you can say in front of me. Right, dear?”

“I have testicular cancer and I wanna show him the tumor in my balls, you wanna see it?!”

“_ How dare you! _”

“The study,” Eddie had cut in. “We can talk there. Myra, just give us some time, okay?”

She hadn’t, of course. And she did call the cops, and Eddie can feel his cheeks burning up from sheer embarrassment even today, so many years after it’d had happened. Having to watch the two officers trying to manhandle Richie out of his apartment, and trying to talk over Myra, who wouldn’t stop sobbing and shrieking about how dangerous Richie was. Such horse shit.

_ “I love you. Just wanted you to know, _” he had said. A lot braver than Eddie had ever been. 

Eddie lifts his bottle and waves it at the waitress. The petite blonde girl smiles awfully too politely at him and turns her back to get him his order. Being honest, he has mixed feelings about people treating him differently because he’s married to Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier. On the one hand it’s nice to get decent service at a venue bar for a change, but on the other… Well. Feels like a different flavor of homophobia, where you deserve special treatment if you're a man who enjoys cock.

Oh, well.

“So what do I mean by all that?” Richie asks on stage, while the waitress pops Eddie’s beer open, that plastic smile back on. “Listen carefully, New York, because I’m about to spew some fake deep knowledge: you can’t change the past. The shit that’s been done to me, that was done to an entire generation is irreversible.” He removes his jacket and lets it drop by his feet. 

“Take a good hard look, because this is what old school homophobia created.” He tilts his head, and grimaces. 

“I am so much more than the scars of my trauma, though. I don’t deserve a trophy and cookie points for being gay and choosing to not hide it anymore. However, I sure as fuck deserve a medal for finally allowing myself to have a life not just beyond the pain, but in spite of it.” Richie makes a fist and taps his own chest.

“I can’t be the voice of a generation, because there’s hardly a ‘my generation’ of gays out there, is there? How many stories like mine, or worse than mine, were silenced because the sight of same-gender couples is _ tad uncomfortable _ to some folks? It’s exhausting thinking about it. More than that, it’s insulting to those who were so much braver, and so much stronger than I could ever hope to be, that I’m suddenly the face of GenerationX gays out there. I can’t represent all those stories, when I’ve barely just built up the strength to live out my own.”

Behind him, the screen finally starts projecting images. It’s a series of headlines and papped pics involving him and other men.

“Pfft, I _ wish _ I had fucked all those guys. Are you kidding me? I should send those journalists a fruit basket for the self-esteem boost. The sad truth is they were friends. Colleagues who were advised by their publicists to be seen with me less often.” Richie shrugs. “I’m not mad at them. They were doing their job. I’m mad at myself for letting it all slide by and actually believing I deserved that punishment. I don’t. I _ didn’t _.”

The crowd applauds him vigorously.

“I appreciate the woke trend, and I guess it’s good for the younger kids, but I have no use for a rainbow flag or straight support. I carry my pride with caution. It’s so young, you know? It’s not quite ready to be going out on parades and shit. But the important thing is that it’s mine. I’ve finally found it. And no matter how hot Prince Caspian is, I’m never stepping back into that closet. Goodnight, New York, have a nice life!”

\--

Eddie waits patiently in the dressing room while Richie does the expected posing for pictures, shaking hands and signing autographs. 

It’s been close to an hour, but he’s not quite tired yet and would be happy to walk back to their apartment. 

Richie walks in, slightly out of breath. 

“So how was it?” He asks, grinning like a fool and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Eddie makes a face. “As the kids say, _ extra _.” He grabs Richie by the belt loop in his pants. Goes up on his tiptoes and places a quick peck on his husband’s lips. “But what matters is what the Internet is saying.” 

“Look at you, pretending you speak the lingo,” Richie boops his nose. “Was it too much, though? I feel like that last bit--I mean, maybe I should add more jokes? Shit, this is such a bummer show.”

“Richie, relax. You were amazing.” Eddie takes his hand. “You can add jokes to your next tour, but this is the performance you wanted to give. You earned it.”

“Okay.” Richie’s breathing seems to be evening out. “Yeah, okay, good. No, you’re right. I should wait and see the tape before I make any adjustments.”

“Exactly. Take the victory, alright?” Eddie’s phone buzzes. “Oh, that’s good! Ok, so I’m tracking the hashtag for your show. Someone’s already written a tweet-review for it.” 

_ “This new version of Tozier is completely different than the one we've seen before. More approachable, with a backstory till now unknown and finally more human, owning his past mistakes and making amends. People have been saying Richie Tozier is reinventing himself in his 40s. I disagree. He is re-introducing himself, and this Tozier is much more interesting and worth knowing than the previous one. #TrashmouthOutLoudAndProud” _

Richie smiles, all tension melting from his shoulders. “Oh, thank God. If people hated I’d have to pay Netflix a fortune.”

“Ok, big guy.” Eddie takes his jacket. “Now. Do you wanna go home, or do they still need you here?”

“Oh, there was this wild after party at the Playboy Mansion, but I guess I can blow them off if you make it worth my while.”

“Oh, yeah? Okay. Why don’t you tell me about it on the way home?”

They leave the theatre holding hands, and neither one of them pays much attention to the pictures being snapped. That’s a problem for another day.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://trickztr.tumblr.com/)!


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